I replied that I had a respectful distaste for transcendental
philosophy.

"From a paper of pins to an opera-cloak," she continued.

"I'm afraid, dear Mrs. McMurray, an opera-cloak is not the
superior limit of a woman's needs," said I. "I wish it were."

She called me a cynic and went.

This morning Carlotta interrupted me in my work.

"Will Seer Marcous come to my room and see my pretty things?"

In summer blouse and plain skirt she looked as demure as any
damsel in St. John's Wood. She hung her head a little to one
side. For the moment I felt paternal, and indulgently consented.
Words of man cannot describe the mass of millinery and chiffonery
in that chamber. The spaces that were not piled high with
vesture gave resting spots for cardboard boxes and packing-paper.
Antoinette stood in a corner gazing at the spoil with a smile of
beatific idiocy. I strode through the cardboard boxes which
crackled like bracken, and remained dumb as a fish before these
mysteries. Carlotta tried on hats. She shewed me patent leather
shoes . She exhibited blouses and petticoats until my eyes ached.
She brandished something in her hand.

"Tell me if I must wear it" (I believe the sophisticated call it
"them"). "Mrs. McMurray says all ladies do. But we never wear
it in Alexandretta, and it hurts."